


Silent Submission

by kingmorsluciscaelum



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Affection, Biting, Clothed Sex, Dominance, French Kissing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mental Instability, Rough Kissing, Silence Kink, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingmorsluciscaelum/pseuds/kingmorsluciscaelum
Summary: Hojo has always made it very well known how much power he has over Sephiroth. Ever so often, Sephiroth thinks it’s time Hojo knows just how much power Sephiroth has over him.
Relationships: Hojo/Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Silent Submission

His throat fits so perfectly in the palm of his hand.

That gaunt face, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, eyes glisten behind a glint in circular glasses. A mixed expression of worry and yet a lack of fear.

Hojo exhales a slow and shaky breath.

Sephiroth’s gloved hand tightens around his throat.

“Ah…” Hojo makes but one noise, and the gloved hand comes around him so tight he actually feels the thumb and the index finger pushing into the sides of his neck, squeezing at his jugular vein, and his vision blurs, dulls, and eventually blacks out.

One second. Two seconds. Sephiroth finally lets go.

Hojo gasps for air, and waits for his vision to fill in, seeing Sephiroth looming over him.

Without a word, Hojo knows he better be silent.

So he keeps his mouth shut.

Sephiroth’s finger lifts from his throat, one index finger pressing into his lips, touching them idly, the sensation of the glove on his lips is strange. They’re warm and leathery, and his lips are dry and chapped and stick, just for a moment, as Sephiroth idly touches his face.

He cups his jaw with his fingers, and switches to his thumb to touch Hojo’s face and jaw with.

The man is massive. Hojo knows this, he has studied every inch of Sephiroth, but at times, especially times like this, he is reminded of his truly massive size. His body encompasses Hojo, large and muscular, against Hojo’s thin and delicate frame. His heart pounds. Feeling his head cradled in the palm of Sephiroth’s hand, he knows just how easily he can be snapped like a twig. Yet he is gentle, as gentle as he can be.

Hojo watches, and sees a twitch of Seph’s lips, and soon it spreads into a smile, and Hojo lets out a shaky breath of air. Sephiroth’s smile usually was not a good sign. He knew better than to trust it. Yet he continued to do nothing. He just swallowed thick, feeling his heart race, and watching what happened next.

Sephiroth leans in.

His kisses are gentle like a lover.

It’s warm. That’s what Hojo notices first. His lips are also smiling on Hojo’s own, and that makes him confused and mildly distressed. Hojo shuts his eyes and just tries to breathe, but feeling that smile is making him nervous, he feels himself trembling and cowering in Sephiroth’s gentle kiss – yet he never tries to pull away. He is content being this way, manhandled by the other, as it was so very rare when it happened.

Hojo wanted desperately to savor this rare and intimate moment between him and Sephiroth.

Hojo hesitates for a long time, and as he feels Sephiroth smiling against him, he cautiously opens his mouth, and softly kisses him back, nuzzling his lips against Sephiroth’s lips, opening his mouth and softly playing with Sephiroth’s bottom lip.

Sephiroth grumbles. Hojo smiles with his teeth on Sephiroth’s mouth. In a bold act, he reaches out, touching Sephiroth’s long and beautiful hair. It’s smooth in his fingers. Luxurious. He sighs and leans in closer, glasses shifting on his face, thumb idly touching Sephiroth’s cheek.

Sephiroth’s hand squeezes Hojo’s wrist. He rips it from his head, and pins it down on the hardwood floor next to Hojo’s shoulder. He growled, lowly, and very quietly, under his breath, but says nothing, as usual.

Hojo gets the picture. His hand goes limp, but Sephiroth keeps it pinned down, angrily, like he is upset Hojo even dare defy him by touching him back. Hojo smiles even more. His mouth is assaulted by more kisses, this time angry, this time with Sephiroth’s teeth, biting, nipping, sealing Hojo’s lips so he can’t speak even if he tries, and sliding his body on top of Hojo, leaning his weight on him.

Hojo is trapped. Sephiroth is far too strong, and he can’t move under his body. Of course, even if Sephiroth didn’t pin him, he’d be trapped. He could never hope to escape his grasp. Just the mere act of displaying it proves to be an intimate one. Hojo settles against the floor, feeling Sephiroth slide his legs over Hojo’s, and eventually resting his groin atop Hojo’s.

Pinned, pressed under Sephiroth’s weight, helpless to his strength and his intentions. Hojo never feels fear. He never feels fear, because as much as Sephiroth wants to express his power – Hojo was always the one in control. He always had been. He always will be. In moments like this, they both know that it never changed, he’s merely giving Sephiroth his power. It’s never an exchange. He’s just… borrowing it.

Still, Hojo can’t help but feel nervous as Sephiroth’s lips grace his face once more. Hojo shuts his eyes and he feels Sephiroth press his lips upon his eyelids, the soft skin brushing over his cheeks, and settling at the corner of his mouth, and finally planting another gentle kiss.

Another kiss. This one with more passion. Hojo feels Sephiroth’s hands grip him harder, pinning his arms down so he doesn’t try anything. Hojo really didn’t feel up to trying anything. Still, the lack of choice is nothing but a comfort at this point. He didn’t have to make a decision. It would be made for him.

Sephiroth’s lips are soft and intimate the whole time, sealing his mouth, until he breathes hard through his nose, and scraping his teeth across his bottom lip. Hojo lets it happen for a while, but when Sephiroth’s lips part, he parts them a bit as well, and feels a tongue dive into his mouth. In a way, Seph almost tastes like blood. Something like copper, metallic and sharp, yet dull and warm. Like a gil coin that he kept in the palm of his hands. Sephiroth’s mouth explores a bit, his tongue is pushing in deeper, and he tastes cigarette ash and coffee in Hojo. Not much else. It feels almost natural. This bitter, dark taste, this strange feeling of being so very warm, and yet everything feels so cold. Clinical.

It’s not enough.

Hojo tests the boundaries again by pressing his teeth on Sephiroth’s tongue, not even trapping it, just casually biting down now that he is so firmly lodged in Hojo’s mouth.

His hand snaps back to Hojo’s throat, and this time he squeezes with intent.

Hojo gasped, choking into Sephiroth’s mouth, and his now free hand feebly scratching at his throat to find purchase on Sephiroth’s hand, to guide him away, as he feels his vision blurring, and his senses grow dull again. He can’t seem to breathe like this.

Somehow there is still no fear.

Perhaps that’s what Sephiroth hates the most. No matter what, Hojo looked at him, expectantly, unblinking, some wretched smile on his face, and he would laugh and call his bluff. He hated that. He hated him. He hated so many things about this man. He wished he could destroy it all.

Yet he never did.

Hojo is thrown back on the floor, not noticing he was picked up by his throat, and dropped back down. He gasps, eyes unfocused, and his glasses knocked halfway down his face. He clumsily tries to reorient them, and by the time he does, Sephiroth has casually grabbed the collar of his shirt, and torn the useless fabric open.

The buttons on his shirt fly off in different directions.

Hojo pants, somewhere between catching his breath and trying to make sense of the situation. Sephiroth is angry. That’s apparent. He’s frustrated. By what? Something involving Hojo? Or something else entirely?

It doesn’t matter.

Hojo shifted, now that Sephiroth’s hands were busy, he undid his coat, or tried to, before Sephiroth tore it open as well, and even more buttons flew if the fabric didn’t tear apart. Hojo looked down, watching Sephiroth part the coat and shirt, exposing his chest and his stomach. There’s nothing special. Not much of a blemish on him. No scars. At worst there are liver spots, wrinkles in his older age, his skin is gaunt in some places, but nothing quite noticeable.

How much harm had this man done, and he had gotten away from it all, scot free? Not even a scar, nor an act of violence, to brand him forever?

Sephiroth suddenly bites down on his throat, replacing his hand with teeth, and scraping over Hojo’s jugular, and suddenly Sephiroth brings his gloved hands together, and starts to jerk at the tip of the fingers, yanking his gloves off his pale, perfect hands. His fingernails are a bit long. Hojo feels a fingernail touch his throat, and trail down. Sephiroth’s hand roams down his chest, fingernails leaving a trail of a bright red weal behind, marking over his body, down towards his stomach, his hips. Even he cannot mark his skin permanently. Only in passing, like this. Sephiroth brings his hand between Hojo’s legs, grasping, pushing down hard, and idly running over his inner thighs. With a quick hand, Sephiroth’s hand hooks at Hojo’s belt, and jerks the old man’s hips hard enough to break the belt, and he pulls it out of the loop, and quickly after that, ripping the fabric at the seam.

“Seph—”

Sephiroth’s hand slams into Hojo’s throat again, enough to knock his glasses off and give him a significant headache to deal with later. Hojo gasped, and immediately silenced, just sitting there, panting, catching his breath, and perhaps even feeling Sephiroth was justified; as if he had pushed too far, trying to break this founded silence.

Sephiroth takes both of his hands, and cups either side of Hojo’s face, and kisses him hard, lips undulate enough times for Hojo to clumsily try to kiss back. It breaks a few times, as Hojo catches his breath, and then Sephiroth seals them again, as if gently prodding him open. Admittedly he feels a lingering sense of concern, for Sephiroth never tore open his clothes like this, and there’s a chill in the air from that dry sterile air conditioning that pumps through the lab. He shivers.

Sephiroth lifts him like he’s nothing, and pulls him onto his lap. Hojo slides his legs around his waist, and climbs onto him, holding to him, clinging tightly, mouths never parting from each other, locked together and constantly nipping and gasping in the other’s mouth. His hands come under Hojo’s arms, fingernails still digging into his skin, but never breaking it. He is all power, Hojo feels it, he feels it in every beautiful movement of Sephiroth’s body. He is perfect. So very very perfect. And even when Hojo boasts that Sephiroth is his, all his, and his alone, it is moments like these he can’t help aching for. Moments where he is possessed by Sephiroth, where he could be destroyed in an instant, such fragile existence would be laid to meaningless waste by his own creation. Yet he does not kill. Perhaps for them both it is only a strange perverted fantasy, to destroy, or be destroyed.

He kisses idly along Sephiroth’s jaw, as he finally pulls his hands down, at his waist, and starts yanking it down more and more, exposing him. Hojo tried not to laugh in his face, it doesn’t feel like that usual clumsiness, but there is a controlled anger. Sephiroth wants to do more damage than this, but this, this is the best he can do. Overpowering… and helpless.

His bare hand finally dives between Hojo’s legs, and he sighs, and sinks against Sephiroth for a moment. He is powerful, and massive, and his hands can encompass so much of him. There is never a moment that Hojo doesn’t love that.

Sephiroth pushes Hojo back down, and the older man bites back the desire to complain, and then he feels pathetic thinking that he even wanted to complain. Had he become so enticed by this rough affection? He had to keep his head clear. Sephiroth presses against his crotch, and any thoughts he had melt away, he’s focused purely on this pleasure, on feeling what Seph wants him to feel. Sephiroth undoes his own coat a bit, and takes himself out, pressing against Hojo.

He’s large, of course, Hojo knows this already, but it’s still different when they are pressed together like this, and he can feel the size difference between them. The heat, the ache, the twitching nervous excitement. Sephiroth’s hand can surround both of them, and he uses his free hand to push Hojo down, his other now finally working the both of them over.

His palms are large, warm, all encompassing, and Hojo bucked his hips once only for Sephiroth to pin him hard with a thrust of his hips. Flat against the ground. Hojo wasn’t supposed to have control. Not here. Not now. So Hojo flattens back on the floor, and lets himself be subject to his whims.

The control Sephiroth exercised over him was always limited, but the days like this, where he feels frustrated and angry enough to let that frustration out on his scientist – Hojo admits he looks forward to it.

He lays there, as Sephiroth does the work, and watches his face flush, his jaw slack, his angered eyes settle into something a bit more subdued for a few seconds, and finally they shut, and he groans as Hojo feels warmth pooling at his stomach, Sephiroth’s hands are clumsy, and for a second, unfocused, nervously and awkwardly keeping up his rhythm. Hojo feels a full body shudder go through Sephiroth.

He would tease him with words, tell him ‘good’, but his head his throbbing and his throat is aching, he knows better than to try teasing right now.

Sephiroth quickly tucks himself away, his messy hand slides across Hojo’s stomach, wiping his hands off on him, and soon his hand cups Hojo’s jaw, still sticky, and smears more of it on Hojo’s lips.

His eyes burn with a passion Hojo could never describe, blue, sea foam, and unnatural green, like neon and halogen. They burn like a green flame, full of anger, yet now, subdued. A bit of his frustrations have escaped him, if only a bit, if only for a moment.

Hojo licked his lips.

Bitter, and musky, a sort of salt and again that strangely metallic taste.

He smiles.

Without words he says a million things.

It’s then that Sephiroth knows he is more vocal by nature.

 _“I hate you.”_ He hissed, nearly spitting in his face, his contempt is sharp like a blade.

Sephiroth drops him, and stands up, he goes to the laboratory sink, and rinses his hands, and his mouth as well, as if kissing Hojo was unsanitary, and he rinses the taste of ash from his mouth with a sterile soap.

Hojo turned on his side, wrapping his torn coat around his body, not really to protect his shame, more to just cover himself up in general. His body is sore, his head is throbbing, he feels weak, and hurt, and strangely happy, all the same. He can’t put his shirt together, so he takes his broken belt and ties off his coat, covering himself, not even bothering to wash himself off. Sephiroth knows Hojo’s disgusting interest in him. He knows Hojo will probably collect everything off himself, put them in sample jars, like he always did, like how everything Sephiroth did was a spectacle, like everything he did was a test, and Hojo would see it every time, just to smile, that disgusting, lecherous smile.

Sephiroth stands there, unsure perhaps, and Hojo carefully approaches him. He keeps one hand around his waist to keep his torn coat together. His hand touches Sephiroth’s jaw, and with his fingers squeezing so hard they turn white, he jerks his head downward, and kisses him back, hard. No passion. Always clinical. Somehow, without words, Hojo speaks his reply.

_I hate you too._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, follow my twitter if you feel like it. https://twitter.com/kingmorsLC


End file.
